


Gotta Dance!

by Lenore



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Dancing, Humor, M/M, Mission Fic, Off-World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What <i>wouldn't</i> Rodney do for a ZPM?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gotta Dance!

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in [Surfacing](http://www.duetpress.com/duet_press/Surfacing1.htm), the most excellent SGA zine edited by [](http://stormheller.livejournal.com/profile)[**stormheller**](http://stormheller.livejournal.com/) and [](http://tovalentin.livejournal.com/profile)[**tovalentin**](http://tovalentin.livejournal.com/). Thanks guys! Also big thanks to [](http://etben.livejournal.com/profile)[**etben**](http://etben.livejournal.com/) and [](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/profile)[**barely_bean**](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/) for beta reading.

Chief Obalowe's headdress was not the most elaborate one John had ever encountered in his travels around the Pegasus galaxy, but it was perhaps the most distracting. An architectural wonder of boldly colored flowers and native fruit, it bobbed and trembled whenever the chief spoke, little round things like grapes doing the shimmy. John kept losing track of the conversation, even though it really was important.

It certainly didn't help that McKay was going into conniptions, circling around the ceremonial pillar in the village center, atop which sat a ZPM.

"I need it, Colonel," he kept saying. "Get it for me. You have to get it for me!"

John put on his buddy-buddy smile for the chief. "My friend's kind of taken with your—" He pointed.

The chief beamed. "So you've come for the competition then?"

"Competition?" John asked warily.

"We always welcome new performers," the chief assured him.

"By perform, you mean—" After many missions and many wacky notions of interplanetary getting-to-know-you, it seemed best to inquire.

The chief looked puzzled. "Dance, of course."

"Ah!" John said, relieved that at least there would be no sharp objects involved.

Teyla brightened as well. "A dance competition, what a wonderful idea."

Ronon grunted, apparently no fan of doing the hustle.

Chief Obalowe swept out his arm toward the ZPM. "This artifact of the Ancestors is the coveted prize. Couples come from all over Catskillia to vie for it. The winners will take it home to display proudly until next year's competition."

"Oh my God!" Rodney circled around the ZPM, scanner out. "It's almost fully charged. Colonel!"

"Working on it, Rodney," John said, meaning _shut up_. He kept a smile plastered on for the chief. "We also have many nice...things from the Ancestors. Lots of stuff that would make a spiffy trophy for your competition. Maybe, as a kind of goodwill gesture, we could trade one of our artifacts for—"

"Oh, no," the chief interrupted, "we couldn't. We're quite happy with things the way they are. We Catskillians aren't much for breaking with tradition. This competition has been going on just the same way for tens of generations."

"You don't say." John did his best to ignore Rodney, who was trying to send him hand signals, flapping like a distraught chicken.

The chief looked inquiringly at them. "If you covet the trophy, perhaps you'd wish to enter the competition? We whole-heartedly invite you."

"Huh. Well…give us a minute to talk it over?"

He powwowed with Teyla and Ronon, "There has to be somebody on Atlantis who can dance."

Teyla nodded. "And many among my people are well-versed in the art."

Ronon looked disgusted. "On Sateda warriors spent time fighting or fu—"

John cut him off with a look and turned back to the chief. "We just need to send back through the gate for a couple to—"

"Oh, I am sorry," the chief broke in before he could finish, "but that was the official gong you heard sound soon after you arrived. Only those gathered in the village by that hour may enter the competition." He smiled. "Who among your group here wishes to compete?"

Teyla looked to John. "We could—"

The chief held up his hand. "Once more, I am sorry, but this year's competition is for men. We alternate. Women will be invited to compete next year. But there are still three of you who are eligible. Surely two will—"

John glanced at Ronon who gave him the kind of look he wouldn't want to run up against in a dark alley.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Rodney came stomping over. "Yes, yes, we'll do it. Where do we sign up?"

Sheppard raised an eyebrow at him.

"Jeannie and I used to compete in ballroom dancing competitions all the time when we were kids."

"You did?" John stared. "You mean… _you_?"

Rodney nodded, as if it were the most likely thing in the world. "It was our mother's idea, actually. She watched a lot of old movies, had a special fondness for Fred and Adele Astaire. Couldn't stand Ginger Rogers. Anyway, my point is: we can win this thing."

" _We_ can?"

"Well, you don't expect me to dance with Mt. Everest over there, do you? He'll stomp all over my feet. Besides if you hadn't gone into the military, you'd probably have ended up an exotic dancer or something."

John put on his most intimidating scowl.

Rodney waved it off. "Oh, please, Colonel. Hips don't lie."

Ronon hooted, and John's withering stare did little to stem his amusement. Clearly, he needed to work on his skills of non-verbal menace.

He took Rodney's shoulders in his hands and did his best to talk sense into him, "Okay, look. I know you really want this ZPM, but I honestly don't think—"

"Good. Leave the thinking to me. That always works out better. You just concentrate on dazzling the audience. Because you _will_ win me my ZPM, Colonel. That's not negotiable."

"Hey, no pressure or anything," John said dryly.

The chief clapped his hands together. "We're delighted to have you in the competition. It's always more festive when there are offworlders taking part, but now that the Wraith—" His smile disappeared. "The competition is not as well attended as it once was."

"Well," John said, throwing on some charm, "we'd be honored to give it a whirl."

Rodney whipped out his PDA and began frantically making notes. "We need to get back to Atlantis as soon as possible. I'll do some quick research on dance steps. Then we can get Miko to coach us. You wouldn't guess it, but that woman really knows how to move. Then for costumes—"

"Oh, now there's a difficulty," the chief broke into Rodney's whirlwind list-making.

John sighed. "What now?"

The chief's expression turned apologetic. "I'm afraid the rules forbid outside help, and all contestants must remain in the village until the competition tomorrow evening. But it will be our pleasure to provide you with meals, guest quarters, and a place where you can practice."

"I guess we can live with that." He hesitated. "Anything else we should know?"

"Those are all the rules, but you should understand a little about our philosophy of the dance. Our people use the art form to tell stories, hand down legends. This is what the judges will be looking for, a performance that really speaks to them."

"Got it." Rodney bounced on his feet. "Just point us to the practice area."

Teyla and Ronon exchanged a look, no doubt gloating that they hadn't gotten wrangled into Rodney's little Dance Fever delusion. Not that they actually knew who Denny Terrio was, of course.

"Go back to Atlantis and tell Elizabeth what's happened and that we'll be staying the night," he instructed them.

Teyla nodded earnestly. "Understood, Colonel."

"Have fun." Ronon grinned and ducked out of John's reach before he could retaliate.

"Yes, yes." Rodney made shooing hands at them. "Hurry on home. We can't afford any distractions if we're going to be ready by tomorrow night."

At the gate, Teyla turned back. "Good luck, Colonel."

John could have sworn she was laughing.

* * *

Not even an hour later, Rodney was red-faced and yelling, "Oh my God! Your hips _so_ lie. They're the biggest frauds in this entire galaxy. You're not this clumsy when you're running from people with spears. What is _wrong_ with you?"

John put his hands on his hips, then felt suddenly self-conscious about that and let them drop to his side. "I never said I could dance, and I'm doing my best. So stop yelling at me!"

Rodney had decided on the tango for their number, which involved Rodney grabbing John, welding their bodies together and manhandling him all around the room. Not the most convenient time for John to realize that Rodney McKay getting physical and taking charge of him was totally his happy zone.

"Why can't we do another kind of dance?" he complained. Preferably something that involved standing a few dozen yards apart.

"Because we're supposed to be telling a story, and tango is the most expressive of the ballroom dances, and," Rodney mumbled, "it's the only one I remember well enough. Now focus."

He pulled John close again, and John's shoulders stiffened almost immediately, other parts of him threatening to follow suit.

"Stop pulling away!" Rodney demanded.

"Stop invading my dance space!"

"You don't have dance space," Rodney sputtered indignantly. "Dance space has to be _earned_! I'll decide when you have dance space."

To emphasize the point, he yanked John against him and launched them into the next step. There was a kind of hip swivel thing, and John was pretty sure this was going to be the longest, most sexually frustrating day of his life.

The Catskillians brought them lunch. Rodney's schedule allotted a grand total of ten minutes to eat it, and when John complained that wasn't long enough, Rodney went straight for the jugular, "Oh, that's fine, Colonel. Laze around all you want. It's not like we really _need_ that extra ZPM. So we won't be able to keep the shield and the cloak up at the same time, or check in with Earth every week instead of every month, or activate the city's internal defensive array. It's not like we'll _die_ if we don't have those things. Probably not, anyway. So you just go right ahead and enjoy your lunch—"

John threw down the rest of his sandwich. "All right _already_. Stop making me single-handedly responsible for the damned apocalypse."

It was absolutely an accident that he stepped on Rodney's foot the moment they started up again. That was his story, and he was sticking with it.

Rodney bellowed and hopped around as if John had hobbled him. "I might as well be dancing with Ronon."

John crossed his arms over his chest. "It's harder when you have to do everything backwards. Why do I have to be the woman anyway?"

Rodney's eyebrows shot up incredulously. "Because I actually know what I'm doing? Now concentrate!"

John didn't get another reprieve until Lorne and Zelenka came through the gate bringing them packs for the overnight stay, a CD called "Hot Tango Passion" that Miko had donated to the cause, and a bag of MREs and Power Bars for Rodney in case the non-citrus nature of the native food couldn't be adequately verified.

"I need to brief Lorne on...things back home," John insisted, using the most convincing military commander tone he could muster.

"No dawdling." Rodney actually snapped his fingers.

"I'm not going to kill him, not going to kill him," John muttered to himself the short way to the village center.

Lorne cracked a grin when he saw him. "How's the choreography coming?" Clearly his sole purpose in making the trip was to laugh at John's expense. "You don't have to wear one of those sequined unitards, do you?"

"That's figure skating!"

"Are you sure?"

John glared at him.

Zelenka had come along to drool over the ZPM and was staring up at it adoringly. "It is beautiful, no? Do you realize all the things we could do if we had it?"

John rubbed his temples. "In way too much detail."

Radek gave him a sympathetic look. "How is the practicing coming along?"

"Okay, I guess. Except for the part where it's turned Rodney into a dance Nazi."

"I'm sure he means well. How bad can it really be?" Radek remained impressively straight-faced.

John snorted. "You know how he gets in the lab?"

"Intimately."

"Well, raise that to the power of a ZPM."

Radek nodded solemnly. "Yes, yes, I can do that calculation, but you are a seasoned military man, Colonel. I am confident you will survive even the worst Rodney throws at you." He hesitated. "Well. Most likely, anyway."

Rodney came striding up the path from the practice hut, tapping his watch. "Enough lollygagging, Colonel. We have work to do."

"Have fun." Lorne winked.

John started making big plans for the Major and the ammunitions inventory.

Things didn't go any better the rest of the afternoon. _Don't slouch. No, your back isn't supposed to be a ramrod, either. Could you let me lead? Your arms are like spaghetti. Now they're tense! Seriously, when did you get so clumsy? I've never seen you trip over your own feet like this. It's glide. Not slide. Glide!_

Finally John stopped, right in the middle of the barrida. "This is why Jeannie doesn't talk to you, isn't it?"

Rodney made a face. "Very funny, Colonel. Now get your ass back over here."

John did his best, he really did. He took a breath and closed his eyes and held on, trying to just go with it, let Rodney drive. But there was the distracting press of their hips, the heat from their bodies sweltering between them, Rodney's big hands on him, controlling his every move. John went from the art of the dance to something else entirely in no time flat.

"You're tensing up again," Rodney complained. "Why can't you just trust me?"

"I do!"

"No." Rodney let go of him. "You don't." He took a deep, calming breath. "Tango is all about connection, the intimacy of the performers, an almost operatic intensity between them. It's not just moving as one. It's thinking, _feeling_ as one. One with the music. One with each other."

John regarded him with a sarcastic smirk. "If you put your hand over your heart and say 'guh-gong,' I'm going to make fun of you for the rest of your life."

Rodney's nostrils flared, always a bad sign. "Do not even _joke_. The day I start making allusions to that ridiculous movie is...a very bad day! For the record, I also will not be relying on Broadway for my pedagogy. No need to sing me a song about your coming of age as a gay dancer, I assure you."

John had a horrifying moment of oh-my-God-he-said-gay that drowned out the "Broadway", "sing," and "dancer" parts of the sentence.

Rodney frowned at him impatiently. "From Chorus Line?" He waved his hand. "Never mind. Let's just take up where we left off."

They went back to practicing, but John was just as stubbornly aware of Rodney's body as he had been all day, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn't relax.

Finally, Rodney threw up his hands. "I can't work like this. I know you're this heroic standoffish loner figure, but you're just going to have to let it go this once!"

"Standoffish?" John felt honestly hurt.

"I realize you have all these personal space restrictions, this close, no closer. Believe me, I read the signals loud and clear, and ordinarily I'm happy to observe your carefully marked boundaries. But there's a ZPM at stake here, quite possibly the difference between our survival and utter annihilation, so you're just going to have to get over this... _thing_ you have about being touched!"

Rodney ran out of air then and thankfully stopped. Maybe if John hadn't spent the last ten hours wanting him so badly it wouldn't have felt like such a gut punch, but he had, and it did. He pivoted sharply on his heel and picked up his pack.

"Where do you think you're going?" Rodney demanded. "We're not finished."

"Yes, we are!" John spat out angrily. "Very, _very_ finished."

He swept out of the hut.

Rodney called after him, "I'll see you first thing in the morning! We still have a lot of work to do! Colonel?"

It was well past dark, and the dancers' camp was quiet, all the other contestants sensibly asleep. John flopped down onto the pallet in his tent, hoping to soon be among them, but after a few minutes, he let out a sigh and opened his eyes. His mind just wouldn't click off. Angry and horny was so not a happy combination. He idly thought about jerking off, then started to consider it more seriously, went so far as to put his hand down his pants, but there was still Rodney's voice in his head to contend with. Rattling off all the reasons they desperately needed that spare ZPM. Going on about John not wanting to be touched, the biggest, most unfunny irony ever considering how hard John was for him right now.

He ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck!" He hauled himself out of bed and trudged over to Rodney's tent.

Rodney was also still awake. "If you've come to apologize for being a quitter—"

"I haven't."

"Well, then, if you don't mind—" Rodney rolled onto his side, pointedly giving John his back.

John stripped off his shirt, and the rustling made Rodney glance over his shoulder. "What do you think you're doing?"

John kicked off his pants. "You said we needed to move together more intimately."

He knelt down on the pallet, shoved Rodney over, and crawled in next to him.

"You have no idea if I'm even interested in this," Rodney said with offended dignity.

John mouthed Rodney's neck, reached into his underwear. "Oh, please. You've had your hands all over my ass all day."

"It's the tango! It's supposed to be—" Rodney swallowed the rest of that rationalization as John started to move his hand.

"Okay, fine." Rodney grabbed John and pulled him closer. "Sue me. It's a nice ass."

Rodney was messy with enthusiasm, kissing John's nipples and brushing his fingers down his sides, moving against him restlessly, apparently wanting to be everywhere at once. John lay back, and Rodney climbed on top of him, and John let him do whatever he wanted. It was the most relaxed he'd been all day.

"Can I—" Rodney hesitated.

"Anything." Just saying it made John hot.

Rodney stilled, his eyes going wide. "Oh my God! You mean _this_ has been the problem? No. Just…no." Rodney shook his head emphatically. "This is so not a problem." He started to kiss in a flurry, all over John's face and mouth and neck. "This is the best thing ever."

John came with Rodney still murmuring that against his throat.

* * *

In the morning, he reached out searching for Rodney, but the pallet was empty. He squinted and looked around, and Rodney was already up, hurriedly throwing on his clothes.

John propped himself up on his elbow. "Is this you having delayed gay panic?"

Rodney threw him his shirt. "This is me waiting impatiently for you to get your skinny ass in gear."

"It was a nice ass last night when you were getting laid," John grumbled.

"Yes, yes," Rodney tugged at his arm, "still nice. Even nicer if you'd get up and put some pants on it."

"Okay, okay. Hold your horses."

John kicked off the covers and got dressed, and Rodney wasted no time dragging him off to the practice hut.

"I don't want to dampen your demented enthusiasm or anything, but, well, we stink." John amended, "Okay, _I_ stink. But it has a carryover effect."

"You don't stink," Rodney told him. "It's the approach. It's all wrong. Me leading. You following. That's not who we are. It's not our story. We're a team. We watch each other's backs. We're," Rodney choked a little on the word, "equals. Our dance has to reflect that."

John grinned. "Equals, huh? You really are willing to sacrifice for your art, aren't you?"

Rodney put his hands on his hips. "Are you going to cooperate or not? We only have until sundown."

"Yeah, yeah. Show me what you have in mind."

Rodney walked him through some modified tango steps that incorporated switching the lead. John suggested working in some moves they'd learned stickfighting with Teyla, and it all turned allegorical from there, inspiration from their adventures in the Pegasus galaxy played out in dance and martial arts moves, leading and following, tension and harmony, together through better and worse, an unlikely collision of opposites that just kind of worked.

"Huh," John said after they'd gone through the entire routine from start to finish without messing up. "I guess we don't stink."

They sent to Atlantis for a change of music, a CD of simple drum rhythms, and a test audience, Lorne, Zelenka, Teyla and Ronon. They put on the music and did their dance, Rodney reminding John at the end, "big smile, big finish!"

There was an unnerving moment of silence and then startled applause

"I really thought they'd just end up killing each other," Lorne said.

"This is a lesson to us all," Zelenka told him. "We must never underestimate Rodney's powers of browbeating."

Teyla gave them a chiding look.

She turned back to John and Rodney and smiled. "You should be most proud. Your performance will bring great honor to Atlantis."

Ronon snorted. "Grown men prancing around—"

Teyla elbowed him hard.

They practiced a little more, until every move felt like second nature, then they met with the local musicians, who were able to replicate the drum music from the CD on the first try. An hour or so before the performance, all the contestants gathered to draw lots to determine the order they'd go on. John and Rodney got the highest number, which meant they were dead last.

"I guess we're ready," John said.

Rodney grinned like a maniac. "To make those other couples look like the hopeless morons they are!"

The performances took place in a kind of open-air theater, and John and Rodney waited backstage while the other couples had their turn, off to one side so Rodney could whisper a running commentary on the deficiencies of the other contestants' routines. As the event progressed, though, he became steadily less talkative and more fidgety.

"What?" John got concerned. "Don't tell me you're freaking out on me."

"It's the waiting." Rodney flapped his hands. "When I have too much time to think, I get performance anxiety. Seriously, have you never wondered why I'm at my most brilliant when we have only seconds to live?"

"I thought you just liked the drama!"

Rodney glared. "I'm not _insane_!"

"Okay, okay, just calm down." John patted his back. "Remember what's at stake here."

"Not helping!" Rodney bent over at the waist, his back heaving.

"Oh my God, are you hyperventilating?"

A distressed gasp for air was the only reply.

"Okay, okay, I know what always helps me relax." He grabbed Rodney by the arm.

"We can't—" Rodney wheezed.

John dragged him off the platform, into a nearby wooded grove, backed him up against a tree, and got down on his knees.

"Okay, so maybe we can," Rodney conceded as John fumbled with the buttons on his pants.

There wasn't much time, but then Rodney was already keyed up on adrenaline. It didn't exactly take John's A-game to bring him off.

"Hmm," Rodney said speculatively as he tucked his cock back into his pants. "I do feel pretty calm."

John slung an arm across his shoulders. "Glad to hear it."

"You know, I get uptight _a lot_ when I'm working in the lab by myself late at night..." Rodney darted a hopeful glance at him.

John laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."

Their turn came at last, and they took the stage and performed their number. All in all, it went pretty well, although John wasn't as smooth as he could have been on the section that was supposed to represent his flying the nuclear warheads into the hive ship. But, hey, not exactly a fond memory. Rodney had a similar glitch in the part where they moved at cross-purposes like they had over that experimental Ancient power source that nearly got them killed. John figured it was probably more authentic that way. Difficult things shouldn't look too easy.

The music built to a crescendo, and they did their big finale, bowed and waited for the crowd's reaction, out of breath. There was absolute silence, just as there had been during their dress rehearsal. John squeezed Rodney's hand hopefully. A second later, the entire audience, including the judges, let out great, wracking peals of laughter.

John could feel Rodney huffing beside him, and he hissed under his breath, "Big smile, remember?"

So they'd lost, and apparently badly. They couldn't let wounded artistic pride derail diplomatic relations with people they knew to possess a ZPM, even if they were going to have to wait until next year to try to win it.

Chief Obalowe wiped tears from his cheeks. "I don't know how you've learned so much about our people in such a short time, but that's the best impression of our beloved partoosh birds I've ever seen. The way they peck and squabble, and get each other into all kinds of scrapes, and then work out of trouble again. How they're always preening for one another and showing off, and can never, ever leave well enough alone. And yet their bickering and shenanigans are just so endearing, because it's all one big mating dance."

One of the other judges shook his head and chuckled. "Those silly partoosh birds."

The chief glanced questioningly at the panel. "So I believe we're all in agreement then?"

They nodded.

The chief smiled. "The prize goes to our offworld neighbors, very deservedly, for their delightful interpretation of our favorite fowl friends."

Rodney puffed up with indignation. "That is so insulting—wait. We actually won?"

Chief Obalowe rose to his feet. "Congratulations, friends. We will have the presentation of the trophy, just as soon as I send young Margrok to fetch it."

He nodded to a boy, who scampered off and came back toting a ladder.

"What's he doing?" Rodney grew concerned. "Wait, are you going to let a _kid_ touch—" The boy propped the ladder up against the pillar and started to climb. "Okay, okay, just be careful." He clapped a hand over his eyes. "Oh, God. I can't watch. It would be just my luck—oh, God."

The ZPM was retrieved without incident, however, and Chief Obalowe presented it to them proudly. "With sincere admiration for your performance."

"Yes, yes," Rodney made grabby hands, "give it here."

The chief turned it over, smiling. "We've prepared a banquet in your honor to celebrate."

"No!" Rodney hugged the ZPM to his chest. "No banquet! We have to take this home right now."

" _Rodney_."

"But—"

"Play nice."

"Oh, fine." Rodney sighed. "But it better be a quick banquet!"

John rolled his eyes. "You'd think you'd never won anything before."

"I haven't! Not a trophy. Not for something artistic."

John frowned. "You said you and Jeannie were in ballroom competitions all the time when you were kids."

"I didn't say we were any _good_."

"Something you might have mentioned when you were talking me into this thing."

"Oh, shut up." Rodney polished the ZPM with the sleeve of his jacket. "We won, didn't we?"

"Because they thought we were _birds_ ," John pointed out, but Rodney had already fallen in with the throngs of banquet-goers and wasn't listening.

All through the meal, Rodney clutched the ZPM as if someone might try to take it from him. When they came back through the gate at last, Elizabeth, Zelenka, Teyla, Ronon, Lorne and most of the science team were waiting in the gate room.

"Nice work, gentleman," Elizabeth greeted them. "We can certainly put that to good use for the year we have it.

Rodney hugged it protectively. "We're not giving it back! Ever!"

"Now, Rodney," Elizabeth adopted her school teacher tone, "the Catskillians are trusting us to return it, and we're not going to disappoint them."

"Oh, all right," he gave in reluctantly. "So we'll just have to make sure we win it back. I'll get the anthropologists busy studying Catskillian culture for suitable themes, and I'll need all the women in the city and on the Mainland who have any dance experience at all to report to the gym in the morning. We need to get started preparing for next year right away." He gave Elizabeth the once-over. "You look like you might have taken some ballet lessons, am I right?"

Elizabeth forced a smile. "Maybe we can substitute one of our depleted units without them ever being the wiser."

Rodney brightened. "Good idea." He hefted the ZPM in his arms. "Well, I'd better go put this to work."

He headed off, and Zelenka's expression clouded with trepidation. "It appears the lab Nazi has returned full force."

John clapped him on the back. "He means well. How bad could it really be?"

He walked away whistling.

There was a lot to catch up on, and John didn't make it back to his quarters until fairly late. He finished up the last of his paperwork sitting cross-legged on his bed, read his pages of _War and Peace_. By the time he put down the book, he figured he'd given Rodney enough time to play with his new toy and took a stroll down to the lab. The place was a ghost town, Rodney the lone straggler.

"Busy now," Rodney said preemptively before John could even get out a word.

John slouched against the workbench. "Having fun?"

"I'll have you know that everything I'm doing is deadly serious." John didn't say anything, and Rodney broke at the second beat of silence, "Okay, okay, so I might be having a teensy bit of very purposeful, very productive fun."

"I don't know," John said doubtfully. "You look kind of tense to me." He moved behind Rodney, letting their legs brush, and started to knead his shoulders. "Just like I thought. Tense. _Uptight_ even."

He could feel the catch in Rodney's breath. "What are you doing?"

"You wanted me to help you relax," he drawled next to Rodney's ear.

"That's really—" Rodney stuttered. "And I want to—it's just—"

John turned him around. "Come on. It'll still be here in the morning."

"But—"

John kissed him before he could protest further and maneuvered him with gentle determination out of the lab.

"I guess I am a little keyed up," Rodney admitted, leaning in to him.

John grinned and rubbed his hand in circles over Rodney's back. "We'll have to do something about that."

Rodney flicked a glance at him. "You seem kind of edgy, too."

John nodded solemnly. "I'll need your help."

"It could take some time," Rodney speculated, "to work out all the kinks."

John grinned and pulled Rodney into his room. "I'm thinking the rest of the night." He I kissed Rodney, lingering. "For a start, anyway."


End file.
